Repository
by sumigoddess
Summary: One-shots and unconnected drabbles all find their way to this metaphorical dump. Complete by default but can always be added to. Rating may change per chapter.
1. Maniacal

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Death Note or its franchise. They belong to their respective owners.  
><em>Warnings: <em>So far so good.  
><em>Rated: <em>PG  
><em>Word Count:<em> 204  
><em>Canon: <em>Death Note  
><em>Title:<em> Maniacal  
><em>Summary:<em> Light muses on his ambitions.

* * *

><p>They don't see it the way he does. They don't realize how much better the world could be – if it were cleaned up a little. But where does a little become a lot; and, where does a lot become too much?<p>

Dystopia, he scoffs, the vision he has for this world is no dystopia. It is perfect. Better than the original by far. And he will keep it running like clockwork – with an iron fist.

Latently, he acknowledges that he is too far gone. It's too late to call him back from the brink of insanity. He's already started the tip over the edge. Somebody stop him before he manages to-

Actively, he thinks, what's the point in stopping now. He is creating a better world. There's just a little left to go. Surely, he can do better than God. After all, all God did was create the world and sit on his ass...

Megalomaniac? Ha! How dare they think to type him with such pitiful creatures! He doesn't wish to rule the world; he will become god of the world. Obviously, this is greater than megalomania. His standards are higher.

… It's become far too much already. And the world is going to change.


	2. Broken Ceramic

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or its franchise. Those belong to their respective owners.  
><em>Warnings: <em>None  
><em>Rating: <em>PG  
><em>Word Count: <em>199  
><em>Canon:<em> Fullmetal Alchemist  
><em>Title: <em>Broken Ceramic  
><em>Summary:<em> Edward Elric hates his gloves.

* * *

><p>His gloves are white.<p>

His gloves are white and he thinks it's deceiving. He's truly surprised they managed to stay pristine after-

They hide mismatched hands. Hands that show the truth. His heart wavers between metal-hard and flesh-soft and is a study of contradictions at even the best of times.

He's even more astounded that thos gloves aren't soaked red all the way through. Considering his brother ( and if it weren't for him, his brother wouldn't be an unfeeling sould encased in armor), his mother ( it was bad enough she died – her ressurection of agony only to be killed by his own hands), and others he despaired of even naming.

Sometimes he wants to take those gloves and throw them against something and watch them break apart – no, shatter into millions of jagged pieces, irreparable.

But he is the Hero of the People. And when you are the hero, the first thing they look for are the hands – clean hands reassure them the best. They see the white gloves and think, surely he's as pure as the driven snow. We'd see it in his hands if he wasn't.

He's too compassionate – or too cowardly – to tell them otherwise.


	3. 1000 Suns

_Disclaimer: _I don't own or profit from Fullmetal Alchemist or its franchise. They belong to their respective owners.  
><em>Warnings: <em>angst  
><em>Word Count: <em>200  
><em>Canon: <em>Fullmetal Alchemist  
><em>Title: <em>1000 Suns  
><em>Summary: <em>It's already been too long and Hoenheim is tired of being.

* * *

><p>He had stopped counting. 1000 suns.<p>

1000 suns into his new existence and he had stopped counting. Eternity was far too bleak a perspective. What hopes he had, aspirations for the future, they all died away with his country.

His country. A land where eyes and hair burned brighter than the sun itself. Far more nurmerous than the sun by far. It paled in comparison. All gone. Burned out like dying flames. No, like dying suns.

All that's left now is a desert. A wasteland. A wasteland of his once home. A wasteland of his hope. Nothing left but sand and the ash-taste of the decay of vitality.

Created, destroyed, created again. This time there's no end in sight. Every soul he has puts up a bitter fight and, in the end, lays down the white flag of defeat. He lies there in the desert, 1000 suns away from home, and thinks, _I want to die_. He isn't allowed anymore.

1000 suns nearer to giving up, giving in, and someone comes. Someone finds him. And, unlooked for, hope rises again. A little sun in his chest.

After all, fires can be rekindled. And one sun's death means another sun's birth.


End file.
